Barbara. There! are you settisfawd nah? Barbara Her eyes dancing. Wish I’d been there, Bill. Bill Yes: you’d a got in a hextra bit o’ talk on me, wouldn’t you? Jenny I’m so sorry, Mr. Walker. Bill Fiercely. Don’t you go bein’ sorry for me: you’ve no call. Listen ’ere. I broke your jawr. Jenny No, it didn’t hurt me: indeed it didn’t, except for a moment. It was only that I was frightened. Bill I don’t want to be forgive be you, or be ennybody. Wot I did I’ll pay for. I tried to get me own jawr broke to settisfaw you⁠— Jenny Distressed. Oh no⁠— Bill Impatiently. Tell y’I did: cawn’t you listen to wot’s bein told you? All I got be it was bein’ made a sight of in the public street for me pains. Well, if I cawn’t settisfaw you one way, I can another. Listen ’ere! I ’ad two quid saved agen the frost; an’ I’ve a pahnd of it left. A mate o’ mine last week ’ad words with the Judy ’e’s goin to marry. ’E give ’er wot-for; an’ ’e’s bin fined fifteen bob. ’E ’ad a right to it ’er because they was goin to be marrid; but I ’adn’t no right to it you; so put anather fawv bob on an’ call it a pahnd’s worth. He produces a sovereign. Ere’s the money. Take it; and let’s ’av no more o’ your forgivin’ an prayin’ and your Major jawrin’ me. Let wot I done be done and paid for; and let there be a end of it. Jenny Oh, I couldn’t take it, Mr. Walker. But if you would give a shilling or two to poor Rummy Mitchens! you really did hurt her; and she’s old. Bill Contemptuously. Not likely. I’d give her anather as soon as look at ’er. Let her ’av the lawr o’ me as she threatened! She ain’t forgiven me: not mach. Wot I done to ’er is not on me mawnd⁠—wot she indicating Barbara. might call on me conscience⁠—no more than stickin’ a pig. It’s this Christian game o’ yours that I won’t ’av played agen me: this bloomin’ forgivin’ an’ noggin’ an jawrin’ that makes a man that sore that iz lawf’s a burdn to ’im. I won’t ’av it, I tell you; so take your money and stop throwin’ your silly bashed face hup agen me. Jenny Major: may I take a little of it for the Army? Barbara No: the Army is not to be bought. We want your soul, Bill; and we’ll take nothing less. Bill Bitterly. I know. It ain’t enough. Me an’ me few shillins is not good enough for you. You’re a earl’s grendorter, you are. Nothin’ less than a underd pahnd for you. Undershaft Come, Barbara! you could do a great deal of good with a hundred pounds. If you will set this gentleman’s mind at ease by taking his pound, I will give the other ninety-nine Bill, astounded by such opulence, instinctively touches his cap. Barbara Oh, you’re too extravagant, papa. Bill offers twenty pieces of silver. All you need offer is the other ten. That will make the standard price to buy anybody who’s for sale. I’m not; and the Army’s not. To Bill. You’ll never have another quiet moment, Bill, until you come round to us. You can’t stand out against your salvation. Bill Sullenly. I cawn’t stend aht agen music all wrastlers and artful tongued women. I’ve offered to pay. I can do no more. Take it or leave it. There it is. He throws the sovereign on the drum, and sits down on the horse-trough. The coin fascinates Snobby Price, who takes an early opportunity of dropping his cap on it. Mrs. Baines comes from the shelter. She is dressed as a Salvation Army Commissioner. She is an earnest looking woman of about 40, with a caressing, urgent voice, and an appealing manner. Barbara This is my father, Mrs. Baines. Undershaft comes from the table, taking his hat off with marked civility. Try what you can do with him. He won’t listen to me, because he remembers what a fool I was when I was a baby. She leaves them together and chats with Jenny. Mrs. Baines Have you been shown over the shelter, Mr. Undershaft? You know the work we’re doing, of course. Undershaft Very civilly. The whole nation knows it, Mrs. Baines. Mrs. Baines No, Sir: the whole nation does not know it, or we should not be crippled as we are for want of money to carry our work through the length and breadth of the land. Let me tell you that there would have been rioting this winter in London but for us. Undershaft You really think so? Mrs. Baines I know it. I remember 1886, when you rich gentlemen hardened your hearts against the cry of the poor. They broke the windows of your clubs in Pall Mall. Undershaft Gleaming with approval of their method. And the Mansion House Fund went up next day from thirty thousand pounds to seventy-nine thousand! I remember quite well. Mrs. Baines Well, won’t you help me to get at the people? They won’t break windows then. Come here, Price. Let me show you to this gentleman Price comes to be inspected. Do you remember the window breaking? Price My ole father thought it was the revolution, ma’am. Mrs. Baines Would you break windows now? Price Oh no ma’m. The windows of eaven ’av bin opened to me. I know now that the rich man is a sinner like myself. Rummy Appearing above at the loft door. Snobby Price! Price Wot is it? Rummy Your mother’s askin for you at the other gate in Crippses Lane. She’s heard about your confession. Price turns pale. Mrs. Baines Go, Mr. Price; and pray with her. Jenny You can go through the shelter, Snobby. Price To Mrs. Baines. I couldn’t face her now; ma’am, with all the weight of my sins fresh on me. Tell her she’ll find her son at ’ome, waitin’